


Deadline

by HouseofLegion (GoldenBloodyTears)



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: 1990s, Bisexual Female Character, Canon Compliant, Dubious Ethics, Eventual Romance, F/M, Journalism, LOTS of Ghost Face headcanons, Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Female Character, POV First Person, POV Male Character, Period-Typical Sexism, Serial Killers, Thriller, quarter life crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:08:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26786467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenBloodyTears/pseuds/HouseofLegion
Summary: In Winfield, Ohio, nothing ever happens. For Sam Scott, this means getting out of town as fast as possible -- if only she could. But as a series of murders quickly turns into a cat-and-mouse game when the local newspaper receives a letter purportedly sent by the killer, a tentative link to an unsolved murder 13 years ago gives Sam a new sense of purpose. Joined in investigating by her coworker, Jed Olsen--the unlikely alliance soon becomes more than she expected. But with all sleepy towns, Winfield might conceal more darkness than either Sam or Jed have bargained for.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 19





	1. Behind the Mask - Part 1

_**Danny** _

* * *

If you are a journalist worth your salt, you will know how to blend in. At its most basic, journalism is a kind of confidence game—the best journalists are the ones who know how to blend in, morphing to their subject’s views and letting them fill in the blanks. The narrative is bendable. The world's a stage, and we are all players—some just know how to play better than others.

I pride myself on being one of those.

Of course, there are those _other_ journalists who disagree with these methods. Their opinions are worthless. It’s only a second rate hackneyed writer that will get hung up on something as stupid as _Journalistic Integrity_. Far too prosaic.

No, the best journalists are the ones who won’t let anything get in the way of telling their story. Come hell or high water, they’ll stop at nothing to get that story out. Watergate wouldn’t have happened if the Fifth Estate paid any attention to the fuckers in charge. Imagine that.

Now, imagine that you’re fresh in town, the dust only just settling from the back wheels of the car you’ve had for almost a decade. How do you put those journalism skills to good use? Step one is to get hired. If you’re smart, you’ll have already scoped out your new home from before you drove on in. Maybe you took a few days off on your last job—went home to Utah as far as anyone knew. 

Pioneer Day is useful for far more things than seeing family. 

Now, if you’ve scoped out the town, you’ll likely know if there’s a local paper or not. You’d have to be pretty stupid to move to a town without a newspaper. Why would you move there if there’s no job for you, right? Well, as long as there’s a newspaper, you can pretty much always convince somebody to hire you. Small town papers have small-town news cycles. Even if you don’t get hired immediately, they’ll be scrambling soon enough once the ball’s rolling. Still, the best circumstance is to get hired as soon as possible—drifting across the country doesn’t lead to riches after all. The interview will likely be similar to every other one you’ve been to. Remember Watergate? Feel free to talk about it, just make sure to make a good impression. Good first impressions are important. People only ever judge you once. 

If they offer you Obituary, take it. It’s better than nothing. 

You’re basically set once hired. People don’t tend to look for reporters unless they have something to say—that’s your strength. Walk the beat. Learn about the town. Find stories. Immerse yourself in every little detail of those stories you find. No surprises. While you do that, it’s easy to bide your time by focusing on always getting that copy done for the next deadline. 

Finally, the night will come where you can’t hold back anymore. The photos and the memories won’t be enough. By that point, you should be ready. The first story should already be planned. 

The house is deserted, just like always. It’s all too easy to break the lock on the sliding door. You’ve done this so many times you can probably do it in your sleep. The inside of the house is quiet, deathly still in waiting as you follow the sound of white-noise static into the living room. The _Story_ is asleep in his chair, snoring away without a care in the world. He stirs awake as you get closer.

“Annie? You home?”

He realizes then that, no, you are very much not Annie, but by then it is already too late. The first stab stuns him. The second makes him panic. Fighting gets him nowhere but onto the floor and underneath you. The work is fucking easy after that. To celebrate, you take a new photo to add to the collection. Consider it the reward of a job well done. By tomorrow, you'll be front-page news.

See, there’s one thing that most journalists will be reluctant to tell you: _If it bleeds, it leads._

And if you know this secret already? Well, congratulations, you might be me.


	2. It's All over Now, Baby Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winfield hasn't had a murder since 1976. For Sam, this means work is slow. A sudden homicide threatens to change everything.

_**Sam** _

* * *

I was fifteen when Susan Mcconnell died. It was August of '76, and to this day, I still remember that summer in two halves: Before and After. Before was _the fun summer_ , the one like every other summer I can almost remember. Bike rides. The public pool. I remember Susan working the register at Jepsen's. Blonde and beautiful, seventeen and sure of herself. In the months leading up to _Before_ , I'd see her in the hallways during school, an awkward freshman love for the senior prom queen. 

And just like that, she was gone. 

In the _After_ , the Mcconnells were hysterical. Their daughter would never run away. Apparently, her father told old Sheriff Burke to get out and not come back unless he took Susan's disappearance seriously. I remember helping put up missing posters. Kept one for myself too. Chris grew overprotective as the days turned to weeks. At twenty-one, my brother was tall with newfound adulthood, lording it over Robby and me as if he was our father. He nearly beat the shit out of Tommy Mcdale— _his best friend_ —when he gave me a lift home from the library one night. Don't go anywhere with a guy after dark was his reasoning.

Susan's body was found fifteen weeks after her disappearance in the North Harding Woods. It was late November by that point, with the local deer hunters being only so lucky to find a corpse rather than deer. Nearly torn apart by scavengers, she was identified by the clothes she'd gone missing in. That's what I remember hearing. Disappearances are common enough in Winfield; nobody wants to live here if they can help it—but finding a body was, and still is, rare. The entire town was on edge then. We all had questions. Who committed the crime? Why would anyone want to harm Susan? What possible sins could the beautiful valedictorian have to deserve such a fate? Answers were never found. Thirteen years later, the murder of Susan Mcconnell remains a cold case. It's a running joke for the sheriff's office—each election period includes the promise of solving her murder. Like most politicians, their promises don't pan out. 

In the case of the Mcconnells, their marriage didn't last past the funeral. Susan's mother left town one day and never came back. Her father stayed but was never the same. I see him every year at the memorial, looking more grey and forlorn than the last as he waits to be reunited with his baby. 

There has not been a single murder since Susan Mcconnell. Thirteen years and yet, nothing. To the general population of Winfield county, that is a good thing. For me, not so much. I am the county's de facto crime reporter for the local paper; this isn't as impressive when most of the crime covered is somebody's shed being set on fire by grassed-up teens. At most, I get to write articles when the next rebel runaway takes off for one of the three C's. Most of them come back. I am jealous of the ones who don't. Winfield is small. Small for a county seat, at least. Harding, the next closest town, is even bigger than us, with Jamieson General Hospital lying between the two like some lovelorn bastard child. Harding is where you go to pretend you don't live in the middle-of-nowhere. Winfield is for everyone else, those too poor or stubborn to try and live somewhere better. The truth is, it doesn't matter if you live in Harding or Winfield—both places feel like the last vestiges of humanity, right before open rural fields or the woods swallow you whole on your rush to get out. In twenty-eight years, I have only succeeded in leaving Winfield four times. It's not that I hate my hometown. It's more that I'm beginning to feel that just like Susan Mcconnell, I will never leave it again.

* * *

My police scanner goes off at six in the morning. The crime: _Homicide._ Twenty minutes and one phone call to the office later, I am outside the scene, sitting in my car. 125 Snake Lane is an old one-story farmhouse on the outer east edge of Harding. Grey and decrepit; the last of its kind, it is slowly being swallowed by development as the farmlands become suburban housing. With the police tape, it looks like the setting to one of those slasher movies that are so popular. 

Too bad it isn't Halloween.

Cars block the road, first responders and neighbours, all packed in against the tape. I get out, a cursory glance at the small crowd—Harry should have sent a photographer, but I don't see anyone yet. Pimpled and gangly, the first brown-shirt deputy I see looks like he should still be attending WHS even though he must only be about six years younger than me. He takes one look at me, sees the tape recorder in my hands and shouts. 

"Scott! Your sister is here!" 

Chris appears as if out of nowhere, looking distinctly unhappy to see me. According to my mother, Chris was asked what he wanted to be when he grew up in first grade; if she's to be believed, he's been a sheriff's deputy ever since.

I think Susan Mcconnell is a better explanation for both of us.

"What are you doing here, Samantha?" 

"My job?" I hold up the recorder with a grin. "Did you forget I work for the paper?"

Chris turns, taking a long look at the house behind him. 

"You know I can't give you any information. This is an active investigation." 

"Who found the victim? Can you give me that, at least?" I scan the gathering crowd. No one looks particularly disturbed. Just morbidly curious and confused. Chris sighs, turning back to face me.

"That would be the deceased's wife. You'll have to figure the rest out, _Nancy Drew._ "

"Thank you for the help, _Deputy Scott."_

I turn on my heel, marching off toward the crowd. A lead is a lead, and what Chris has given me is better than nothing. The first person I approach is an older woman in pyjamas and a housecoat. She looks to be in her sixties, old enough to be my mother. 

"Hi," I say, clicking the tape recorder on, "I'm Sam Scott. I work for the Winfield Post, and I was wondering if you'd be able to tell me anything about the house there?"

Apprehensive, the woman pulls her housecoat closed. She crosses her arms over her chest as she stares at my tape recorder.

"Peggy," she says finally, "My neighbours live in that house. I'm not too sure what's going on, I came down to the mailbox, you see—" She nods towards the house across the street. The roadside mailbox is open, _Williams_ painted in blue on the side. 

"Peggy, are either of your neighbours here right now?' 

Several women are surrounding us at the moment. I don't know if any of them is the wife of the deceased. Peggy raises her hand to her mouth and scans the crowd for me. I watch as she bites her index finger.

"No, that would be Allen and Annie Parker... I don't see either of them." 

"Is there anyone here who you think would know where Annie is?"

"Well, I'm sure the deputies would know," Seeing my expression stiffen, Peggy quickly continues, "Or you could try asking Harriet Frances."

She points to a middle-aged woman standing just on the other side of the police tape. I can't believe I missed her, even though her blue coat blends in with the coroner van, making her look like a floating blonde head. 

"Thank you, Peggy. I will." 

As I turn to move, Peggy suddenly grabs my right arm. 

"She's a real _busybody_ ," She whispers.

Smiling, I shake my arm free. 

"I'll keep that in mind, thank you again."

I have no time for neighbourhood rivalries. The sound of tires on gravel grabs my attention as a black car drifts into view. I recognize it immediately, my teeth on edge as I realize _who_ Harry has sent as my photographer. 

Jed Olsen. 

I don't hate him. Not on principle. We needed a new contributor after Old Eddie finally retired, and Jed appeared at the right time. He's a strong writer, a reliable reporter and makes his deadlines in record time. What I dislike is that he seems to think I am out of place in a newsroom. The Winfield Post is made up of two part-timers, six full-time contributors and our editor-in-chief. Jed is our newest hire, and as such, he mainly works obituaries and whatever else Harry throws at him. 

I am the only woman who works full-time for the paper. I've worked at the Post for years, but I can't shake the feeling that Jed is liked more than I am.

"Olsen!"

I round on the car. Through the driverside window, I watch as Jed cracks open a can of pop and downs it. Impatient, I tap the glass. He looks at me and grins, rolling down the window. 

"Scott, O'Reilly said you needed photos?"

He looks like shit: red eyes and dark bags underneath, his brown hair wild and barely combed. His white shirt is ironed, but one side of the collar looks singed. 

"Jesus, _Obit_ ," I hiss, "Did you just crawl out of bed?"

His expression darkens at my use of the nickname. I'll admit, reminding him of the pecking order _does_ make me feel good.

"I was up late. O'Reilly decided to run me through the wringer." He smacks his lips. "Photos?"

I sigh and point to the Parkers' house. "The house mainly. I don't think they've moved the body, so see if you can get a shot of them carrying it out."

"Got it." Jed nods, and I find my earlier annoyance fading. He knows how to work together, at least.

I head back to Harriet, who has just finished talking with one of the deputies. Leaning over the yellow tape, I tap her shoulder. She turns to face me, startled. 

"Yes?"

"Ms. Harriet?" She nods, and I continue, "I'm with the Post. Would you be willing to answer a few questions for me?" 

Harriet glaces at the deputies then smiles at me. "Sure thing, hun." 

She ducks under the tape and follows me back to my car. Leaning against the boot, she runs a hand through her corn-silk hair and pulls out a lighter. 

"Say, you wouldn't happen to have a smoke?"

I nod and open my car door, reaching over the console to grab my cigarettes. 

"Here." I pass her the box.

Harriet grabs one of the cigarettes from inside and lights up lightning quick. She blows a ring of smoke then grins at me. "So, you want to know what happened here. Right?"

"Do you know what happened?" 

"In theory. I gave my statement to the handsome young deputy over there earlier." 

She points to my brother. I guess I make a face because she laughs and says, "Bad blood, I take it?" 

I shrug. "Maybe so." 

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Jed skulking around as he takes photos of the scene. Harriet takes another drag from the cigarette as I focus my attention back on her. 

"What happened here?" I repeat, turning my tape recorder on again. 

"Annie and I are coworkers. I usually give her a ride home from work when we're on the nightshift." Harriet crosses her legs while leaning against my car. I realize she's wearing the white nurse's uniform typical to the hospital underneath her coat.

"So what happened differently this time?" 

"Nothing. We worked; I drove Annie home. I'd just gotten in--" She points to a yellow house just down the street, "when suddenly she's calling me, _screaming_ about Allen! So I head down, and sure enough, the poor bastard's dead in the living room!" 

"How'd he die?"

"Somebody cut him open like a fish, no way he was alive still."

"What did you do next?" 

"We called the police."

"Is there any reason someone would want Mr. Parker dead?"

Harriet frowns at my question before she exhales more smoke between her teeth. 

"No. The man was a glorified saint. He liked to drink, but never got in trouble as some people do." 

"Alright. What about Annie?"

Finished with her smoke, Harriet drops the used butt of the cigarette onto the pavement. She places the heel of her penny loafer over it and grinds down, then tosses my cigarette box back to me. 

"Mother Theresa. She didn't kill him if that's what you're thinking."

"No, of course not."

* * *

When I finally make it into the office, the rest of my day is spent making phone calls and copy for Harry. Chris might have been reluctant to give me anything, but he's not the only deputy I know. I dial the number and then press the phone receiver to my ear.

Like always, Deputy Tommy Mcdale answers after four rings.

"Scoops!" His laughter is warm in my ear, crackled from the static. "Somehow, I knew I'd be hearing from you today!"

"Lucky guess?" I lean back in my desk chair, twisting the coil wire of the phone around my finger.

"More for you than for me, I think."

"Well, if my luck hasn't run out, I was hoping you could fill me in on some missing info."

"Off the record?"

"Like Always."


	3. Touch of Grey

_**Danny** _

* * *

> _**MURDER IN WINFIELD COUNTY** November 16, 1989_
> 
>   
>  _Yesterday, on the early morning of Nov. 15, Winfield Sherrif Deputies were called to a house in East Harding. Inside, they discovered the deceased owner, Allen Parker, age 55, as confirmed by a neighbour. According to anonymous sources, the victim was stabbed a record of 25 times. The death has summarily been ruled a homicide. The Sherrif's Office has been reluctant to reveal information, but no leads are apparent at this moment in time. This is the first homicide to strike Winfield in 13 years; the previous, Susan Mcconnell, remains a cold case. The Winfield Sherriff Office requests that any citizen who might have info for either case contact them as soon as possible._

Five days later, and I still feel more alive than I have in months—the feeling indescribable. It makes me eager to continue my work. The death of Allen Parker is only the beginning; the stone tossed into the pond, leading to ripples. Winfield has slept for years, but now she is awake. The stir Scott's article has caused is palpable, strengthened in effect by my photo of Parker's body-bagged corpse. It's short. So very, very short. I don't know if that's O'Reilly's fault. It doesn't matter—it doesn't matter because this is only the beginning. An excellent start, better than I expected—I expected garbage, the same dull prose I've seen Scott write, rewrite and rewrite again for O'Reilly for all of 5 months and 26 days. 

I'm curious to see whether she can keep up with Ghost Face.

Anticipation. Preparation. I have so many plans. I've barely slept since the murder, but drinking can after can of Coke helps with that. My notebook is littered with potential. Most people don't realize it—don't even comprehend it, but you can tell a lot about a person from their habits. 8 am every weekday, my neighbour in 2C goes for "a jog" and comes back strangely non-sweaty. By that point, it's 8:30, and the single mother who lives below me in apartment 1B takes her son to school. At 12 noon on a Monday, if I look out the window next to my desk in the bullpen, I will see the same two little old ladies buying lunch at the place across the street like every other week. It takes a conscious effort to change, to break the habit; most don't. All the _stories_ I have planned are similar. They live their lives, meandering along, route routine after route routine until, finally, I give them meaning. They never appreciate it, but I guarantee them infamy—freedom from their monotony. It's not my fault that the price they pay is in blood. Some elude me, with luck or happenstance, and they are the ones I might let escape if the whim is right. Most still meet my knife, just on a delayed schedule. I'm not picky.

"Hey Olsen," A hand hits my shoulder, my fervent daydreaming disrupted. I look up to find Bill Addams, the Post's "city" editor... which isn't saying much. His face is more cracked than the Grand Canyon, and his grey-brown moustache moves over his mouth like a strange bird as he continues to talk, "O'Reilly wants to see you in his office."

I nod, reaching for my current Coke to finish off before I go—O'Reilly always wants something; he can wait for 5 minutes. I wipe my mouth. The sound of chair wheels and shuffling papers behind me says Bill's gone back to work. The newspaper won't write itself, after all. 

The Winfield Post lives in a renovated industrial building. The bullpen sits on the second floor, open and empty with how few desks we have to fill the space. At night, you can feel the printing press rumble to life downstairs after the deadline. O'Reilly's office sits in the back, a small glass box with access to both the bullpen and the print room. I imagine he wishes for the day to come that he can storm below and yell, "Stop the Press!"

Maybe I'll be the reason. 

The windows to O'Reilly's office are shuttered, the blinds pulled down low. I pause at the open door. O'Reilly is talking to someone, and as I listen, it becomes clear the other person is Scott.

"I'm glad to see this has given you a kick in the pants, Sam." 

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't been the same since Marjorie died." O'Reilly pauses, waiting for Scott to respond. When she doesn't, he sighs and continues, "You know what the others think? They think I keep you on because I was sweet on your aunt—I know you can do the job; if I didn't, I'd have sent you packing months ago." 

"Thanks, Harry." 

Scott storms out of O'Reilly's office, stopping short when she sees me. Her face is flushed red, giving her auburn hair a run for its money. 

"Eavesdrop much?" She asks, words dripping with acidity. 

"Nothing at all," I reply with a tight smile.

She squints, screwing up her face as we stare at each other before she breezes past me, then I turn and enter the office. Harry O'Reilly is as Irish as they come. Tall and booming, he looks like he would have kicked the English out of Ireland while using his ever-present suspenders as a whip. He stands as I approach his desk, gesturing to the chair in front of it. The seat is warm when I sit.

"You've been here for about six months now, right?" O'Reilly starts, taking his seat behind his desk.

"Just about, why?"

He fixes me with a pointed look, leaning forward across his desk. "What've you learned about Susan Mcconnell?"

"Not much, honestly. I know she's been Winfield's only murder for... 15–"

"13." My palms dig into my thighs as I'm corrected.

"13 years, then, at least until last week?"

"Okay, what about Thanksgiving?" O'Reilly continues, looking at the little calendar on his desk. "You're not planning to visit family or anything? You never asked for time off."

I forgot about Thanksgiving. Fuck.

"I like working. Why?" I succeed in making O'Reilly laugh with this. 

"I want you to go to the Mcconnell Memorial on Thursday. Thanksgiving. This is usually Sam Scott's, but she has a family commitment, so I'm giving it to you instead."

"I see."

"However, I want you to work with her on it. She's lived and breathed the Mcconnell Murder for years now; there's no need to reinvent the wheel. Have her show you the ropes." 

I don't want anything to do with Scott. I still smile like a square as I stand up to leave. "Understood. Thank you."

As I'm halfway out of his office, O'Reilly pipes up again, "Olsen?"

"Yes?" I turn, looking back to find him pointing at his mouth.

"You have ink on your face."

Heat radiates up over my collar. 

"Thanks again, Harry," I say, forcing a smile. 

My first stop is the bathroom. True to O'Reilly's word, my pen must have leaked because I have bright blue ink smudged across my mouth, chin, and all over my left hand. Impossible to miss. Leave it to Scott not to tell me. I grab a paper towel from the dispenser and wet it, adding soap that's more water than soap and scrub away at my face. The paper falls apart in my hands. Clumps of white and blue paper cover my chin. Scowling, I grab another sheet and scrape myself dry. Once satisfied, I head back to the bullpen. Scott is at her desk, typing away on her computer. More about my murder? She does not notice as I approach, nor when I stand next to her. I clear my throat. She stops, looking up at me.

"Olsen, I see you got rid of the ink." She leans backward in her chair and grins.

Petty little bitch. 

"I did," I say, keeping my tone even.

"So... how can I help you?"

"O'Reilly has me covering Mcconnell's memorial." At this, I watch as Scott's expression twists, making her look as if she's tasted something sour. I ignore it and continue, "He said you're the expert to ask."

Scott relaxes, and I learn something new: Appeal to her Ego.

_Women._

I watch as she rolls up the sleeve of her sweater, checking the watch on her left wrist. She sighs, then turns back to look at me.

"Wanna grab lunch?"

* * *

When Scott offered lunch, I thought she'd take me to the place across the street. Instead, I suffer through a tense car ride while she drives us to a little hole-in-the-wall a few blocks from the office. _Jepsen's_ is the name and sandwiches their game, based on the crudely drawn window art. 

"Why here?" I ask as we climb out of Scott's little blue ford. 

She doesn't answer me and instead points toward the alley of the building. The red brick wall is overlaid with a mural. What was once bright reds and greens have faded with the weather, but I can still make out the shape of flower blooms and the name _Susan Mcconnell._

Okay, so they made a mural to the dead girl. Doesn't answer my question.

"She used to work here. The owners wanted to honour her memory."

"I see."

Stuffing my hands into my coat, I follow Scott into _Jepsen's_. The inside isn't much better than the outside: yellow-white plaster walls and a long grey counter. The menu board has pictures; the plastic overlay is grimy. Grateful Dead is playing over the speaker system in dull static pops. Behind the counter is a bored-looking teenager with braces. She straightens up with a 20-kilowatt smile when she sees us. 

"Wha'canna getcha two?"

Scott and I glance at each other. What follows is the awkward attempt of two people trying to place separate orders while ignoring the other person in a space that is only moderately larger than my apartment bathroom. _Jepsen's_ is more suited for takeout, but we take up residence at the singular table by the big window once we have our sandwiches. I balance my notebook on my thigh, preparing to take notes as needed. 

"Alright, let's set the scene." Scott unwraps her sandwich as she speaks, "What do you remember from summer 1976?" 

"'76?" I repeat, doing the mental math required. "I was 16. Had just got my license." 

I can still smell my old man's musty truck. Too many nights spent cruising around Salt Lake with nothing good in mind. 

"Right, okay. Well, I was 15—" 

I would have thought Scott was fresh out of school. Not a year apart in journalistic experience. Not dangerously close to 30. 

"And Susan was 17," Scott pauses, raises a finger and takes a bite out of her sandwich. Tap, tap, tapping my pen against my notebook, I watch as she chews then swallows. "If you want to know what Winfield looked like in the '70s, look out the window."

"Not much change?"

"Nope." Scott grins, then continues, "This was actually the last place anyone saw her." 

"What, really?" I sit up straight in surprise. I'd never expected her to bring me to the last place the victim was seen alive. 

"Yes. Susan was walking home from an evening shift when she disappeared." 

"Abducted?"

"Not exactly. There was a witness who saw her get into a black car… the leads never panned out though." 

"And her body?" 

"Found in the woods north of Harding—still wearing her uniform." 

I try to picture it as I scribble notes from what Scott has given me so far. The forest is simple. Dark. Foggy with a touch of grey. Dead leaves crunch underfoot—flies buzz, accompanied by the sickly sweet stench of rotting decay. Susan Mcconnell lies among the debris. She wears the same baby blue uniform as the teenager behind the counter. I can't picture her face; I have no idea what this girl is supposed to look like, so her face morphs as I look at her, appearing more and more like my past successes. I almost tear a hole into my notebook when Scott interrupts me.

"Eat your food, _Obit_. Maria didn't make that sandwich just so you can ignore it."

The surprise from being disrupted is replaced by anger. I despise that nickname. I don't deserve to be treated like a summer temp worker. Not by Scott. Not when I've been working in journalism longer than her. A year is a year. I'll be damned before I let that slide—especially when I have no choice in asking for her help. Seething, I drink some of my Coke, and then, having swallowed my anger, respond. 

"First-name basis, huh? Come here often?" 

"I think you have more important concerns to focus on—like eating your sandwich." Scott smiles as if she's said something witty, then takes another bite of her sandwich. She places a hand over her mouth before adding, "They're good, you know." 

I sigh and unwrap my sandwich. I'm not about to be lectured by a woman who isn't my mother. I take a bite. It's chicken cobb, just like I ordered. 

"Decent," I mumble before taking another sip of my drink. 

Scott squints at me. "I call bullshit." 

The sandwich _is_ good. But I'm not going to agree with her about it, and I'm definitely not arguing over it. 

"Focus, Scott. What else do I need for Mcconnell?"

Scott leans forward on the table, grabs her water and takes a sip from the bottle. 

"The most important thing to remember is this is a memorial. You're not there to give theories. The Sherrif's office never officially revealed their suspects; as far as I'm concerned, they never had any. Susan's father will be there. You'll want to interview him—he'll approach you without prompting, actually. "

I nod, taking note of the failure to reveal a suspect list.

"Oh, and try to make sure it's a feel-good piece." 

I already know I'm going to hate this assignment.


End file.
